Divergence

“I can’t see anything,” complained Saskia irritably. She needed more sleep.

“They’re out there somewhere,” said Maurice, sliding his fingers over his console. “Ah, got them.”

He zoomed in on the crates, floating through space in neat lines, two by two. Ben, the eleven-year-old captain of the A Capella, hailed them. “Hello there, Maurice.”

“I’ll deal with this,” said Saskia. “Hello, Ben. Is your dad there?”

“I’m captain of the A Capella, Saskia,” Ben said disapprovingly. “Anyway, my dad’s gone to bed with Mum.”

“Should you be saying things like that about your parents?” asked Maurice. Ben waved his hand in an airy gesture. “Dad says he’s never felt so relaxed since I became captain. I don’t think he’ll want you disturbing him.”

“How do you suggest we pick up these crates then, Ben?” asked Saskia.

“Open the doors to your large hold, slide yourself around them, and then gradually dial up the gravity,”

said Ben. “That’s what we usually do.”

“I can do that,” said Maurice, “no problem,” and he noticed the way that Saskia looked at him. Not exactly approvingly, but at least she had lost her earlier hostility. He wondered at what Judy had said to him earlier in the hold about the pair of them.

“Why don’t you get down there now?” suggested Saskia. “Check that they arrive okay.”

“I will,” said Maurice.

He picked up his console and walked from the room. He still felt slightly ashamed of his behavior earlier. Then he heard Judy’s words from the corridor. Later on, he wondered if he was supposed to.

“He’s very competent,” said Judy. “Maurice, I mean.”

“Yes,” said Saskia.

“A word of advice, though. Don’t do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t, whatever you do, end up doing something stupid like sleeping with him.”

Maurice stopped, fists clenched. And then the door to the conference room slid shut on their conversation.

Seething, he walked on down the corridor.

interlude: 2245

—Judy has gone, said the Watcher. He and Chris communicated oh, so carefully. Any message, any scrap of information that passed between them had the potential to be a weapon. A Trojan, a virus, a recursive meme. A message could also be an arrow, a pointer to the other’s location. Chris’ reply was days in coming, written in the arrangement of a pattern of asteroids. Their subsequent conversation danced in dust motes; it was written in the stars.

—So? Chris said. —She will come back.

—You really think that she will help you defeat me? the Watcher replied. —She hates you. You killed her sisters.

—That was Kevin, not me.

—Kevin works for you. You gave him control of the processing spaces. Judy had twelve digital copies of herself living in cyberspace and you allowed him to kill them all.

—Where has she gone? Chris asked, changing the subject.

—You think I would tell you that?